


Don’t make plans.  Plans are bastards

by SuperSoxforFox



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Fade to Black, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, more or less, show appropriate terrible language, some sexy times though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 18:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11675127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperSoxforFox/pseuds/SuperSoxforFox
Summary: Plans will, if you let them, conspire against you. Malcolm is fucking sure of it.





	Don’t make plans.  Plans are bastards

Malcolm did know he was late. It couldn't be fuckin’ helped, and he had texted, _and_ sent Jamie off as soon as he could be spared (one of them might as well be there and he couldn't fuckin’ leave), done the last of the mopping up himself, sent them to his - it was fuckin’ closest - to spend less time faffing about with cars. But he was still pissed off. Pissed off and still, somehow, sat at his fucking desk.

Some junior arsehole in transport had lost a laptop (an entire fucking too-government-issued-to be-anything-but-bulky-old-and-heavy laptop for christ's sake), which had caused a minor kerfuffle in the press. Fattie then wading in off script to a hack outside Parliament then caused Malcolm to have to shovel shit for 8 straight hours over the slightly _more_ than minor kerfuffle that caused. Scream, shout and pillage his way through several departments, spin, convince, threaten and offer several suggestions of exactly what he could insert into who's arse.

Malcolm contemplated actually getting up. _Actually get up, you fucker, and leave_ , he settled for digging his knuckles, tiredly, into his eyes.

It was, in the grand scheme of the fucked up way his days went, not actually that bad a day, it was only nine, he was leaving the office, and normally he be pretty fucking pleased, thank you very much. The universe had cowered back in line in accordance with Malcolm Fucking Tucker. It should be home, curry, bath, maybe even a wank. Last few furious emails and bed for a whole five hours sleep. De-fucking-lightful.

The problem was, the problem fuckin’ was, he’d had plans. Plans. Jamie and Julius related plans.

Since they’d started this……this _thing_ ; this thing where he and Jamie sometimes went to the stupid mausoleum of a posh fuckin’ mansion baldy called home, there was never enough time. There had never been enough time anyway, when it had been just him and Jamie, and Malcolm had never managed enough time for just himself to have a life, even before he’d entered into the most stupid and complicated seres of…..things he could imagine.

 _God, I am such a fuckin’ moron, what am I even doing?_ He stomped around switching off lights like they’d personally wanked all over his plans.

Ringing through for a car, he checked his personal mobile as he walked out of the dark offices and through to the street entrance. Nothing from either of them. He pushed it back in his pocket, disgusted for even looking. The car was waiting, he told the driver to take him home and stuffed himself in the back, hair and face slightly misted from the freezing drizzle on the short walk over.

They'd only ever managed a few of these. The first time, Malcolm swallowed against an involuntary flash of images, the fist time it’d been half payback, half bribery, half ( _yes, fuck off_ ) daring each other on, him and Jamie, desperate and courageous with the exhaustion and anger of the week from hell.

Malcolm fucking knew Julius had a thing for him, considerably more than just a thing, he was’na fucking stupid, he was fucking busy, and fucking angry at baldy half the time, and fucking Jamie. Always Jamie. Jamie in Glasgow, Jamie in London before ‘the wives’, Jamie after the cold fish finally left him and Jamie's own marriage imploded in a volcano of shouting and recrimination.

And now just Jamie, he’d thought. Even as he’d noticed Julius noticing, even if he’d thought fondly of the baldy insults he’s thrown Julius’s way. Aloud himself a few smirks back, when the blue sky thinking hadn't been too infuriating for the last few days. He'd never seriously entertained doing anything a-fuckin-bout it.

But Jamie’d always been oddly obsessed with it. Jealous yes, oh yes, Jamie’d always been a possessive bastard. Openly jealous in private, mocking and scathing of Julius in public. But, if it was just the three of them, he’d needle Julius. Always rude, it was Jamie, but…..attentive somehow. Eliciting focused attention in return. Malcolm had entertained the idea of being jealous himself, but in the end he’s sat back and watched, it was more entertaining.

That fist night, desperate and exhausted, furious and hopeful, already on the way to victory - maybe, maybe - already helped by a few manoeuvres Lord Nicholson had been cajoled into, needing one more - possibly, possibly. Malcolm with his hands on all the strings, playing the outcome. Smelling victory, smelling the ability to go the fuck home after three fucking days and nights. Turing up on Julius’s doorstep, the both of them, not quite offering, not really needing to. All three of them, pulling the last strings, phones to ears. Not really from gratitude, not quite all curiosity either.

Looking to Jamie, who’d just looked feral, disheveled, manic. _Go the fuck on then, do it, fuckin’ do it Malc_ , in this eyes.

He had. Kissed Julius, grabbed Jamie while baldy had still been spluttering, covering for shocked desire, kissed Jamie. _Yes? Really? Are we doing this?_

‘Malc’, Jamie’d groaned, _yes, fuckin’ lets_.

Turned to Julius again, slid a hand onto his hip, offered a softer peck, enquiring, repeated.

‘This something you really want baldy? An’ I’m offering both of us here, eh? Fuckin’ package deal, yeah?’  Julius had just nodded, mute but sure, and lent in for another, deeper kiss.

‘Alright’ Jamie had said, ‘where’s your fucking bedroom then, got its own postcode or what?’

Malcolm blinked back to reality as the car pulled up outside his house. He was, he realised, walking up to the door, not nervous but, something. They’d never been at his for a start, always in Julius's giant bed, the three of them. And it’d always really, he released, been about him. Him in the middle, him with one then the other.

The two of them had, to his knowledge, shared two kisses, one blowjob, and precisely no civilised conversation, ever. That first night Julius, oddly bold, inexperienced obviously but bold, had kissed Jamie, like he was proving he way on board with the ‘package deal’. Jamie had kissed him back, pushed him off and called him a wanky Lord Baldymort, but kissed him back. And then, just the last time they were together, Julius has kissed Jamie’s hip, question in his gaze. Jamie had sat up like a bolt, and for a second Malcolm could tell, Julius had thought he was going to push him off or something, start shouting. But all Jamie’d done was pull Julius into a deep, bitey kiss and then push his head down as he'd lent back.

So Malcolm wasn't sure if he'd sent them to his place to have some possession over what was happening while he was stuck at the office, or so he didn't have to drag himself back across London when he found that alone, together, they’d just started such an argument (one half vitriol, one half smug condescension) they had to be separated.

He didn't really know what to expect as he opend the door and shed his coat. The lights were off down stairs, which he took to be a good thing, or a really fucking terrible thing and they’d already fucked off home, angry, and hadn't bothered to text him, the fuckers.

What he didn't expect was the remains of a meal, proper actual food from the pans in the sink, and a had-to-be-brought-by-Julius expensive bottle of (empty) wine. He walked through to the sitting room; somehow the disarray of the sofa cushions spoke of Jamie, but the note resting against the full glass of red on the table was in Julius’s elegant hand.

_Malcolm, upstairs x_

What he didn't expect, when he pushed open the bedroom door, the taste of the really fucking nice wine on his lips, was the astronomical bolt of lust he felt upon finding them on the bed, Jamie, shirtless, and looking like one hand on his own nipple as he nuzzled Julius’s cock through the fabric of his trousers.

A gasped ‘James’ as Jamie breathed, hot and damp, over the head.

‘Holy fuckin’ king of live porn, you cunts have gotten’ yourselves fuckin’ sorted then’.

They were both smiling as they looked up at him. Jamie somewhat more feral, which Malcolm knew was the little bastards way of covering uncertainty. Julius was managing to look more human, if worried. As if, despite his specific instructions to the contrary, this was somehow not aloud. Granted Malcolm hadn't realised quite how much he’d wanted all this to be a bit more equal when he issued the instructions to fuck off to his place, but that just proved what an absolute-fucking-genius he was, ta.

He crossed to the bed, bestowing two reassuring, filthy kisses, and two more tender stroked to the cheek, before settling himself against the headboard.

‘Don’t fuckin’ let me interrupt, yeah? I’ll just finish ma wine. You two carry on’.

Julius looked relieved, and happy, as he pushed his face into Jamie’s neck, cradling him against his broad chest. It did something warm and fond to Malcolm’s stomach watching Julius’s broad palm stroke across Jamie’s slim hip.

As he looked up, Jamie was watching him, he looked, more… settled, a smaller more genuine smile in his eyes. He reached for Malcolm’s free hand and kissed it, Malcolm stroked his thumb across Jamie’s cheekbone and his eyes fluttered shut.

Julius looked at him upside down, eying the already impressive buldge in Malcolm’s trousers, blushing,

‘Malcolm, are you sure-’

‘-not yet, you two just put on a little show love, yeah? I’ll even give you some recovery time, but then I’ll not say no to the fuckin’ two way tag team blow job of my dreams’, he grinned.

Jamie snorted and shuffled back down Julius’s body to resume his earlier activity. Julius offered Malcolm a heated, happy look, his pupils blown, burying his hand in Jamie’s messy hair.

‘Oh yeah’, Malcolm thought, taking a sip of £200 wine, ‘it’s good to fuckin’ have plans’.

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> This is, actually, the first thing I have ever written. But I haven't been able to get this particular head canon to leave me alone. For like, years, so here we are.


End file.
